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Pagan (The Henchmen MC #8)
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Fighting. F@cking. F@cking things up. That was my life. That was how I got out of the world I had been raised in. And it was how I intended to keep living my life.
That was, of course, until I came across her. The game changer.
Hard work. That was pretty much all you could say my life consisted of. It was what got me out of a rough childhood. It was what made me get my first taste of success. Before things went to hell, that is. But it was what was going to get me back on my feet too. So I didn’t need any distractions. Certainly not one that came covered in scars, blood, leather, and in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Yet, there he was.
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The Henchmen were having an open house.
And anyone who knew me knew I loved a good fucking party. And that’s what this was. Reign put the word out that the club was looking for new members; the right kind of people showed up toting cases of beer and handles of everything else. The music got to blaring, the liquor got to pouring, and the skirts started waltzing in.
To be honest, we didn’t have a lot of parties.
The older members were settled down with their women and kids. Which left me, Cyrus, Reeve, and Edison being the only ones who were around to want to throw down. Five fucks didn’t a party make.
On top of that, Reign didn’t like a bunch of strangers in the clubhouse, still paranoid since some bastard came in and killed most of his men.
I guess I understood that shit.
But Reign was a good leader and he knew the slow trickle of new probates just wasn’t going to cut it. He got a deal with a new Lebanese contact and needed as many men as possible to help run the guns.
We were a pathetic lot with only eleven members.
So he took the initiative, got word around, had some of Lo’s guys come in to watch over and make sure no one was there for reasons other than to party and vie for a position.
I should have been in my fucking glory.
But I just wasn’t feeling it.
I hadn’t had a fight in almost two weeks. That was the crux of it. Slate was out of town, and everyone else at Hex was too much of a bitch to get into the ring with me. I wasn’t used to it. And it was pissing me off. I had no outlet, so it was just all built-up inside.
“Come on, man,” Cyrus said, throwing an arm around my shoulders, shaking his head. “I can’t handle all these women myself. I mean… I can,” he went on, smile sly. “But it would be a lot of fucking work, and I would need a serious protein and electrolyte regimen for a week after. Take a couple off my hands, would you?”
Cyrus was an easy guy to get along with. If you needed such a thing, he was the ideal wingman. He was always down for a good time even when his more staid brother wasn’t. And unlike Edison, he didn’t scare the chicks away with his dark and lethal vibe. In actuality, women flocked to Cyrus with his laid-back, charming personality. We had spent many a night on the town together when no one else was interested.
Normally, I’d hop up, grab another bottle, and follow him to the chicks.
“‘Sup?” he asked when I didn’t answer, as two guys moved into the seating area, sitting down on the couch, each with a beer cradled between their hands.
“You wore another MC’s cut in here?” I asked at almost the same time. The leather was old and soft, the patches frayed and dirty from age.
“Lost ninety-percent of our MC to a raid a year back. Until we have new cuts to wear, we will keep wearing these.”
You didn’t even need to read between the lines to see that they were bikers through and through, likely raised in an MC. It was in the ease with which they were inside a compound, surrounded by other bikers and clubwhores and mysterious strangers in paramilitary garb.
Both were big, not quite as mammoth as Wolf, but close. The one who spoke was white with tats snaking down his arms and across his neck, somewhat short-cropped dark brown hair, and gray eyes. The tops of his hands were crisscrossed with scars in all stages of age, and there was one nasty one that cut through both his lips.
The other was roughly the same size as the first, black, and with giant shoulders and massive arms. His head was shaved; his eyes were dark and guarded, and while he was in a relaxed position, everything about him was humming with energy like he could jump up at anytime if he needed to.
“I’m Cyrus,” Cy said, pulling the arm from my shoulders and reaching out to them. “This fuck is Pagan.”
“Sugar,” the first one said, making a smirk pull at my lips. Of all the biker names… fucking Sugar? His voice had an accent too- something I maybe pegged as Staten Island, a strange mix of other New York accents which made him leave the ‘r’ off at the end of his own name. Suga. “And this is Virgin.” Oh for fuck’s sake. At Cy’s raised brow, Sugar shrugged. “Because he doesn’t give a fuck.”
“What was your MC in?” I asked, knowing for damn sure it wasn’t baking cookies for charities and nice slow rides up and down the coastline that made the locals sweat unnecessarily. Because right there on their chests were one-percent badges. And you didn’t wear them if you were some bullshit weekend warrior.